There are shadows on the stage of man
Who prune the branch of the rose
Who cut the flowers along with the leaves
So that no scent can reach the nose
And so the summer goes by
And many of loves promises die

The shadows paint the stage with knives
With loves blood and not true love
They wreck the course of happy lives
And hide beneath the assassin’s hood
They seek some sort of personal glory
In the death of love for money

And even embedded in the bed of love
Like, martial artists, they destroy the bud